


Checkmate

by one_windiga



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, The Pool Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-11
Updated: 2011-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-18 17:42:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_windiga/pseuds/one_windiga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is betrayed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Checkmate

_I will burn the heart out of you._

The words ring in the empty pool, and Sherlock swears he can hear them echoing still over the faint sloshing of the water as John struggles out of his bomb. He gives John a hand, ripping straps and Velcro as fast as he can, and when it’s tumbled to the ground, he kicks it as far away as he can on the slippery tile.

John sways for a moment before leaning back against the wall, then sliding down to a crouch in weak disbelief. Sherlock hovers nearby, assessing for immediate injury.

“I’m fine, I’m … Sherlock, I’m fine…”

To which Sherlock can only attempt and defuse the tension, and soon enough they are laughing deliriously, the sort of mad laughter one often sees in war camps and cancer patients. But it rips out of their lungs and thrums in their veins, and he feels better.

The laser sights come back.

So does Moriarty.

He saunters in, and he draws out his ‘o’s in his mocking declaration of, “I’m so~o changeable!” and Sherlock wants to break him. But the snipers are still there, and the bomb is still there, and there are likely even more pieces on this chessboard that even Sherlock isn’t aware of, because Moriarty is _brilliant_ , and as much as that excites him, it also terrifies him.

When he lowers the gun to aim at the bomb instead, Moriarty widens his eyes and gives him a look that just _dares_ him to do it, go ahead, _shoot_ , kill us all, I don’t think you’re man enough to do it.

Before he can pull the trigger, though, he’s distracted by a snicker. He looks up, only to see Moriarty breaking into laughter.

Laughter?

He’s half-doubling over from laughing so hard, and after a moment, he makes a pleased sigh and straightens, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye.

“Oh, dear, I thought I could keep a straight face longer than that! I’m usually an _excellent_ actor, you see, but this is just _too delicious for words!_ ”

Sherlock stares. He doesn’t lower the gun, but neither does he shoot. He can’t shoot now; this is interesting, this is new, this is something he can’t _explain_. He can’t blow them all up now, not before he figures it out.

There’s another snort. It didn’t come from Moriarty. After a moment, he slowly turns his head. John is laughing. He’s chuckling quietly to himself, shaking his head and rubbing his hair in the picture of humble amusement.

“… John?” he says cautiously.

“You broke!” cries Moriarty, as if he’d just won a bet.

“Well, I lasted longer than you, you ponce,” John retorts easily.

This is wrong. This is very wrong.

John sighs, shrugs, tilts his head side-to-side until it cracks. He steps forward, over to Moriarty’s side. He doesn’t stand any straighter, doesn’t suddenly look taller, doesn’t even get a glint in his eye. He still looks like John, normal John, jumper-wearing John, John that sometimes scorches the tea John, John that always buys the milk every week, even though they only drink half of it. John.

This isn’t supposed to be John.

There must be an expression on his face, because John takes one look at him and his mouth twists, somewhere between a smile and a frown. “Kill for a man, and suddenly he thinks you’ll die for him, too,” he says off-hand, glancing to Moriarty before looking back. “That’s a logical fallacy, Sherlock.”

Sherlock tightens his grip on his gun, but says nothing.

“You see,” Moriarty says gleefully, “the trouble with loyal pets is, you may be their master now, but you always have to ask yourself – who were they loyal to _first_?”

Sherlock suddenly has difficulty swallowing.

John sighs a little, tilting his head. “Wasn’t it an awfully big coincidence, Sherlock? Running into me, someone who could protect you, keep up with you, and would actually put up with you putting body parts in the kitchen appliances? You never wondered?”

“I made you a promise. And I always keep my promises. I told you that I would burn the heart out of you. You know why I was so sure I could?” The world is crashing down. “Because I already had,” Moriarty whispers, leaning forward with a conspiratorial grin.

“You’ve played well,” John says, and tucks his hands into his pockets casually. “Checkmate.”


End file.
